


A Stable Orbit

by pangodillO, Wholly_owned_subsidiary



Series: Newton's Third [6]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: BPD Cecil, Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil Is a Good Boyfriend, Earl just wants to be a good boyfriend at everybody, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Cecil, Sexual Content, Trans Carlos, what a sad cecil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-08 01:59:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10375338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pangodillO/pseuds/pangodillO, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wholly_owned_subsidiary/pseuds/Wholly_owned_subsidiary
Summary: Cecil was so busy with their own distress, the last of their willfulness melting under the old familiar comfort of Earl’s care, that they didn’t see how they were drifting together. How naturally Earl lead them both, how easily Carlos followed him. How many years did it take for Cecil and Earl to settle into this routine, into the ebb and flow of their relationship—how many years for them to just bestable, behealthyfor fuck’s sake. And Carlos slipped into Earl’s orbit effortlessly, instinctively, like—like—Like they were made for each other.





	

“I hope this doesn’t seem too—out of left field,” Carlos said, with a sweet little smile.

 

It was only natural, really, there was no other way this could have gone. Cecil could have seen this coming if they had tried, if they had paid attention—decades of details slotted into place, leading to this one inevitable conclusion. 

 

“Of course, nothing happens unless everyone is comfortable,” Earl was saying, and Cecil brought themself back around to the conversation at hand, forced a smile. “And if— _if_ —if we get it all together in a way that works for us, we can set whatever rules we need so everyone stays comfortable.”

 

“Sure.” They carefully maintained their smile, breathed deeply, pretended the room wasn’t spinning, that they didn’t suddenly feel a need to throw their mug of coffee against the wall and _scream_ until there was nothing left—no voice, no air, maybe no Cecil. Certainly no Carlos and Earl, that would drive them away, a shrieking hysterical little—

 

“Ceec—? Are you—?”

 

They were being so careful with Cecil. Earl on one side of the sofa, sitting tall, stable, confident, knees spread slightly to take up space, Carlos with his feet tucked up under him like a large and contented cat. Cecil in the middle, always in between, both and neither and overflowing and empty. All and nothing, all at once.

 

“Can I—can I think about it a bit?” they said, swallowing past a lump and looking away.

 

“Absolutely.” Earl reached for their hand, squeezed; Cecil barely felt the contact.

 

“I’m gonna—” Cecil stumbled to their feet, kept smiling. “I’m gonna hop in the shower real quick. There was a brimstone incident at work and I still smell like sulfur and. Um. Yeah.”

  


It would have been easier to cry in the shower. Well, not easier, but—more logical. Better than this slightly nauseated emptiness, this raw sort of ache. _Sitting on the floor like this won’t be good for your joints,_ they thought. _Have to take better care of yourself,_ they thought, but in Earl’s voice.

 

Carlos and Earl fit together so well. Cecil could have predicted this. Earl, who never pushed too far, who knew Cecil’s limits and never, ever crossed them once established; Carlos, who said he wouldn’t think differently of Cecil, having seen them submit, and whose performance was almost convincing, almost good enough to shush the nagging voice of suspicion.

 

Both of them needed so much more than Cecil could offer—so many loud and lovely things, so many new adventures. Not Cecil’s safe little box, not their desperate clinging. Both had once loved Cecil, or at least said they did; Cecil had believed them both.

 

Both wonderful, caring, loving. Carlos had slipped right into submission with Earl, probably without noticing, without thinking about it. Natural as the rise and set of the sun.

 

 _They’ll be very happy together when they leave_ , Cecil thought distantly.

  


This was set up almost fifteen years ago. After the chaos, when they’d finally found a way to settle comfortably together, leaning against each other for support like stones in an arch. Earl had made peace with Cecil’s shifting affections and Cecil was finally sifting through the shattered glass of sexuality and gender and biology, looking for what shape it all might take if they could only stick it back together. They’d still argued, but not as aggressively; they passed time together and cooked meals and said _I love you_ and then Earl tied them up and fucked them through the mattress and _oh_ it was a life, it was a pleasant tempest, more up than down for the first time Cecil could remember.

 

And then Cecil broke it. A subtle crack, room for a wedge that was just now hammered in. Because Cecil said no.

 

Well, technically, they blinked afterwards, considered what they had just done together, and then their mouth said, “Maybe—not that. Anymore,” before they’d even realized they’d come to a conclusion.

 

“Hmm?” The comforting fingers through their hair, the concerned catch of Earl’s lip between his teeth. “Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah—that just—it wasn’t.” They realized too late that they’d implied that it was somehow Earl’s fault, like they couldn’t have realized sooner, like they weren’t responsible for maintaining their own boundaries ( _your boundaries are a joke_ , Earl once said, a million years ago, and swearing he didn’t mean it didn’t make it any less the truth).

 

“I’m sorry. I should have checked in more.” He’d scooped them into his arms ( _like_ _a princess_ ); he was too good, too understanding. “Are you okay?” he said again.

 

And it _was_ okay—nice, even, to make a request and have it honored. And Earl _remembered_ it, Earl learned their face, how to tell their satisfaction from their discomfort from their sudden, blank panic, the drops from the outright crashes.

 

Months—years?—time—passed, and the big fights started again. Probably Cecil’s fault; at the very least they participated in each one, shouted louder, slammed more doors. They offered that thing like bait for a trap, coyly. Earl had certainly enjoyed it, and that would keep him around, wouldn’t it? Love was about sacrifice, about giving, and it wasn’t _intolerable_ , it was far from the worst thing they’d ever tried.

 

Earl declined, squeezed them tight. Not that. He’d promised, hadn’t he? Promised to keep his precious Cecil safe, even if it was from themself.

 

They wondered how Carlos would feel about it—had they done that already? They’d probably at least talked about it. And that one little line, the start of a weak attempt at boundaries, at self-protection, that’s how it would happen. Carlos could handle more, physically and emotionally, and who could blame him for—

 

“You alright in there?” Two knocks. More a command then a question. _Report back. I am responsible for you_.

 

“Not for long,” they mumbled. _Petulant bitch._ And then, louder: “I’m okay. I’m fine. Sorry.”

 

“Hurting?”

 

“Uh—yeah.” And it was technically true, as numb and disconnected as they were from their body, they were certainly hurting.

  


“I’m concerned about that locked door,” Earl said quietly. He’d made a cup of tea for each, and then another. He’d resisted the almost natural temptation to ask Carlos to assist. Better to be careful.

 

“I bet they’re—fine,” Carlos said brightly. “It’s a hard thing to hear. And they’re kinda fragile. As I’m sure you noticed,” he finished, softly, as though embarrassed. “You’ve—you’ve definitely noticed that. But they’re—they know we love them.”

 

“They know _you_ love them.”

 

Carlos said nothing, but he definitely offered Earl a look, pulled off his glasses and polished them on his shirt.

 

“What?”

 

“Are you going to tell them?” Carlos set his glasses carefully back on his nose, scratched his scalp. “I’m sure it would help negotiations.”

 

“Not yet,” Earl said. “Not unless they say it first.”

 

“Do you really think now is the time to start holding grudges?”

 

“That’s not—listen, okay? I’ve seen Cecil through so, so many crushes, and lovers, and partners and all manner of people. And let me tell you, Cecil loves anyone who loves them back. They don’t—it’s not on purpose. But they don’t really believe it, no matter how many times they say it, until they’re satisfied, until they _know_.”

 

Earl crossed his ankle over his knee, exhaled heavily. “They’re still—testing me. When we first gave this a shot—shit, how many years ago—we were both young, and neither of us were totally stable and I—I was not the best boyfriend for them.”

 

“Oh?” Carlos said, and the tone was very careful, a hint of protectiveness under that single syllable.

 

“Said some things I shouldn’t have, things I didn’t even mean. But they hold onto it, all of it, filed away somewhere, as possible truths they have to at least consider. We’d reached a point, a long time ago, where they trusted me completely. But there’s been too much time, too much distance—and they love the fuck out of you, you know that—and they aren’t sure they can trust me like that now.”

 

Carlos was making a face, one of vague disbelief perhaps. “That doesn’t sound like something Cecil would—”

 

“I don’t think it’s intentional. But it’s definitely there. Almost like they want me to disappear on them again, or miss the old fights we used to have. If you drive people away because you think they’ll leave you, well, you weren’t wrong, were you?”

  


And of course they’d dropped recently—not just dropped, crashed and burned, looking over their phone at Carlos’ small and loving smile. Because darling Carlos should have been enough, shouldn’t he? More than enough. How sweet and perfect it was, waking up with Carlos curled against their chest, his soothing fingers and his kisses and a small, shared treat when Cecil couldn’t eat anything substantial on their own.

 

This sweet and perfect and wonderful, this careful and loving, to bring Cecil back up after they’d fucked somebody else. While Cecil was giggling over a sweet text from Earl—

 

He still stayed with them, when they said “It’s okay, you go to work, I’m fine”, when they curled up with their head under the pillow, when they apologized again and again but didn’t dare call attention to what they’d actually done, opting instead to just apologize for everything, for their entire existence. He stayed while they interrogated themself, everything suddenly in question, every problem they’d ever had—ever caused—traceable to their inability to make a decision, to settle on one thing, to be content—selfish, stupid, miserable pathetic little _shit_ , dragging dear Earl and beautiful, wonderful Carlos down with them—

 

“It’s just a brunch service, he said.” Carlos pulled close to them, traced patterns on their skin with the tip of his finger, and Cecil remembered they’d been speaking out loud. “He’ll be back soon.”

 

And Cecil was so busy with their own distress, the last of their willfulness melting under the old familiar comfort of Earl’s care, that they didn’t see how they were drifting together. How naturally Earl lead them both, how easily Carlos followed him. How many years did it take for Cecil and Earl to settle into this routine, into the ebb and flow of their relationship—how many years for them to just be _stable_ , be _healthy_ for fuck’s sake. And Carlos slipped into Earl’s orbit effortlessly, instinctively, like—like—

 

Like they were made for each other.

 

Cecil was once just happy that they were getting along. _Selfish_. Like they deserved to keep both to themself. Like they deserved either of them at all.

  


Cecil came out of the shower and flopped immediately into bed, hair still wet, wrapped in a towel, on top of the comforter. Earl seemed hesitant to get directly involved, this time, but Carlos sat on the edge of the bed, set his hand on their back, asking no questions, making no demands.

 

“Are you alright?” he asked finally, carefully moderating the concern in his voice.

 

No answer. They stirred slightly under his hand.

 

“Are you hungry? Want some tea? Or something?”

 

A shrug.

 

“We don’t have to do this. If it’s going to be this hard on you—we don’t want to hurt you, Ceec, I don’t ever—”

 

He was interrupted by a faint, half-growling sound; Cecil pulled away, curled around a pillow. “Please—don’t _do_ that,” they snapped. “Don’t—give up important things for me. Don’t sacrifice—”

 

“You’re important.” Carlos swallowed, looked away. “You’re—well. I can’t say more important than anything. But more than a lot of things—most things.” He reached a tentative hand forward, pulled it back, then forward again, set it gently on their back once more.

 

“Don’t. Please?” And then, much quieter, “I’m sorry I’m like this. I’ll—I’ll get over it! And it’ll be fine. Just let me—let me sleep on it, and I’m sure—”

 

Carlos leaned, set the gentlest kiss on their shoulder.

 

“Hey.” Earl pulled the cord on the bedside lamp, flooding the room with a dim, soft light. “Want me here?”

 

Blunt. Neutral tone. Trying to keep Cecil from floating off into the simple, safe world of instruction and care, probably.

 

“It’s late,” Cecil said into their pillow. “You should go home.”

 

“Off tomorrow,” Earl said. “Look, if you want time to think, if I’m in the way of that, I understand. But you’re not chasing me off so easy, Mixter Palmer,” and there was just a bit of humor in his voice, light but not mocking. He’d probably spent years tuning that twist, Carlos thought.

 

Earl sat on the bed, and Cecil made another faint, exasperated growl and pushed their head into his lap. Earl ran careful fingers over them, eyeing exposed skin with a frown. “C’mon,” he said, “you’ve got to be freezing.”

 

They were rolled out of their towel, now cold where it was wet, and wrapped in one of the soft knit afghans they’d made in a burst of creative energy the previous June. Earl looked them over with the same little frown, and Carlos made a note to ask what he was looking at. Now didn’t seem like the time, as a tightly wrapped Cecil laid back in his lap and let him comb fingers through their still-wet hair.

 

“Carlos,” Earl said, in the careful, neutral tone, “you mind getting some water?”

 

It was entirely not Earl’s fault, and probably wholly inappropriate, but Carlos didn’t read a neutral request into the tone. It was just too easy, letting Earl instruct him on Cecil’s care, letting him help them feel safe and comfortable. But this wasn’t the time for that now—that was something to consider later, maybe discuss with Earl.

 

“Open,” Earl said, when he returned with the water, and it took Carlos a second to realize he didn’t mean the door. He had a small, pale peach tablet in the flat of his wide palm, and he reached behind for the glass without looking.

 

Cecil looked away. “Are you sure it’s that—”

 

“You’re shaking. Your pulse is fast. That’s what it’s for.”

 

“I’m—okay, now. Really. I’m sorry I freaked out. I’m fine now.”

 

“I trust you. But the physical symptoms are there. That’s what this is for, remember? It’s just the little one.” He kissed their forehead. “I know you can tolerate this, and I’ve seen you tolerate worse, my strong, brave, precious Cecil.” His lips were still pressed against their forehead. “But just because you _can_ doesn’t mean you have to. It doesn’t always have to hurt so bad.”

 

Cecil looked down at their hands, twiddled their fingers together. “I’m sorry about—”

 

“Shush.” Earl’s voice was not unkind. “Didn’t I say I’d always take care of you? Didn’t I promise? Let me. Open your mouth.”

 

Carlos watched, almost hypnotized, as he set the pill on their tongue and held the glass to their lips, sweeping a stray drop off their chin. They were staring at each other, straight on, and yet somehow Carlos felt like he was a part of this too, he had a place here in this one little ritual, more than just fetching the water. His position in their relationship offered implicit permission: incentive for Cecil to care for themself, allow someone to care for them.

 

“Swallow, kitten,” Earl said, somewhere between a command and a request.

 

They complied and Carlos suddenly needed to be there, with them, touching them. He slid behind Cecil on the bed, tucked his feet under himself, and set his head on their shoulder, felt the soft yarn of the blanket, wove his fingers into the little holes to feel their warm skin underneath.


End file.
